30 Days of Radical Honesty Journalling Challenge – Day 11: What Did I Survive That No One Knows About?

There are stories we bury so deeply, we almost convince ourselves they never happened.

But the body remembers.

This is a story I don’t speak of—not because it didn’t scar me, but because naming it would give it shape, and shape makes things harder to forget. It’s easier to pretend it was just a bad dream, a night that soured too quickly, a misstep in shoes that were never meant to dance on broken glass. But I carry it still. In the shadows. In the corners of mirrors. In the memory of a mouth that was not mine.

It happened in a crowded room. With laughter. With music. With people I knew and trusted just metres away. I told them something was wrong. I said it quietly at first, then louder. I looked for someone—anyone—to meet my eyes. To step in. To say, “enough.” But no one did. Not even her. Not even him.

The next day, my skin felt like a crime scene.

I showered again. And again. And again. Steam billowing like smoke, tears trailing down tile. I scrubbed until I was raw. Until my body felt foreign. Until even the water recoiled. But I could still feel it—his breath like poison fog, his hands like oil slicks, his mouth like rot. I swear I still feel it sometimes.

Years later, I still flinch. When I see someone who looks like him, my heart panics.

There’s a kind of violence that doesn’t leave bruises but still leaves you black and blue. And there’s a particular brand of cruelty in being blamed for it. In hearing your boss say, “this is why we shouldn’t mix work and pleasure.” In being told you were too dramatic. In watching the people you loved choose comfort over confrontation.

I said no. I said stop. I said “don’t be sorry, just stop.” And somehow, he heard an invitation.

Sometimes I hate myself for not screaming. For not turning the room to rubble with a single guttural cry. For not making it loud enough to shatter the silence that swallowed me.

But I was taught not to scream. Taught to keep the peace. Taught to be nice. Taught that discomfort was better than making someone else uncomfortable.

So I stayed silent. But my silence has teeth now.

And if you read between these lines—if you know what lives in the metaphors—I hope you know this:

I survived.

Even when they didn't help. Even when they looked the other way. Even when the walls closed in and the night folded over me like a bruise I couldn’t name.

I survived. And I kept going. And I will never, ever be that quiet again.

Peace, Love, and Inspiration,
~Britt Wolfe💚